The Ghost Belonged to Me
by Aishuu
Summary: After Touya Kouyo dies, Akira begins to have visitations from his father's spirit. There's more than one lesson the Meijin still needs to teach his son.
1. Chapter 1

** The Ghost Belonged to Me**

_ by aishuu_  
Pairing: Akira/Hikaru, eventually

* * *

_Part One:_

The night my father died, I became the second Touya-Meijin.

It was a Thursday night in early November when he passed. I was playing against Ogata in one of the most important matches of my career, but I gladly would have forfeited if I had known my father was dying. That was a choice that was never given to me, and I regret that.

I hadn't thought about Father much that day, even though I knew he was frailer than he should be. Some people in our lives we mentally mark as immortal; after the scare of a dozen years ago, Father began to take care of himself.

I was being a good Go player, and concentrating on the seventh match in the Meijin series, putting all external concerns from my mind in pursuit of the title. We each had already claimed three games, so everything rode on this pivotal match.

I already held two titles – Juudan and Kisei – but if there was one title I would have given them both up for, it was Meijin. A small part of my mind was thinking that in scoring the third title, I would again pace Shindou in our race, since he had just won his second title. It would also be a thrill to claim the title which my father had been known for.

The fifth game in the Meijin series was full of excitement for the audience, but I found the place that father called the "center" and was able to divorce myself from the stress. I won the game by five moku, my largest victory over Ogata ever, even including practice matches. I had played excellently, overcoming my old limits and refining my "attacking" style so that I'd surpassed him in that match.

It was really a wonderful game, or so I discovered when I brought myself to look it up a couple of years later. It is the only game that I did not retain a perfect recall of, for obvious reasons.

I could see Ogata was simmering with resentment as he congratulated me for the win. His eyes glittered unpleasantly behind his glasses, and I knew he was plotting ways to take me down. In the Go world, friendship ends in a match.

I tried to be a graceful winner and not do anything to rub his loss in, but a smile of pleasure found my lips, and I couldn't wait to call Father and talk to him about the game. He would probably had suggestions on how I could have done it even better. He always did; his insight into Go was something I never quite matched. One day, I would vowed to surpass him, but he was still my superior.

We had begun to discuss the game with members of the media, and Ogata admitted I'd played the key hand early on, and he'd never been able to recover. He should have resigned halfway through, but he had been desperate, hoping to find some way out. He didn't phrase it that way exactly, but both of us knew the truth.

Iijima, the lead editor of Weekly Go, turned to ask me a question. I don't remember what he said, because something distracted me. The door to the outer hallway was open just enough for me to hear voices discussing something earnestly, although I couldn't make out exactly what they were talking about. They were louder than they should have been, since the post-game discussion was one of the most important parts and people should have been silent.

"Is something going on?" I asked, turning my head toward the door.

Iijima frowned in irritation, but he rose to find out what had caused the commotion. "I'll be right back," he promised, and I anticipated he would throw out whoever was acting so rudely.

A minute went by, then two, and the waiting dragged on. Ogata glanced at his watch, bristling with irritation, but I knew better than to address him. Another minute, and I stared at the board, wondering why I felt uneasy.

Iijima finally stepped back into the room, accompanied by a man I knew very well. It was Ashiwara, who I had assumed had been watching from the observation room. Both of them looked grave, and I raised an eyebrow inquiringly. It was unusual to be interrupted, but Ogata and I both kept from protesting. Ashiwara knew not to disturb us unless there was an important matter.

"Akira-kun," Ashiwara said, "I need to talk to you about something." His normally vibrant face was waxy, and his bloodless lips made him look like a corpse. Whatever he was going to say, I wasn't going to like it.

I was right.

* * *

Ogata was human enough to set aside his grudge with me and offer me a ride home. He had been one of my father's students, he said, and it was his duty to help out in a time of need. 

I don't remember agreeing to accept it, or most of the ride. I know Ashiwara sat beside me on the back seat, a hand pressed against my shoulder in a gesture that should have been comforting. I don't remember the feel of his touch, or the reassuring words he tried to offer me. Instead, I remember watching the clouds in the sky, and the lingering scent of tobacco that filled the car.

It's strange what we remember.

I don't think I felt grief; instead, a feeling of confusion nearly overpowered me. I couldn't believe he was gone. Surely Ashiwara had made some mistake. Ashiwara tended to be excitable, and it was feasible that he had confused the message.

Knowing Ogata, he probably broke all kinds of laws to get back to my parents' home quickly, but the ride seemed to drag on forever. I just wanted to get home, find out what the truth was – another heart attack, maybe – and speak to my father.

Ogata pulled into the driveway just as the sunset was finishing. Ashiwara didn't wait for him to stop the car fully, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door while the vehicle was still rolling. I watched as he came around the other side, pulling the door open for me. He waited as I undid my seatbelt, but I brushed aside the hand he offered to help me rise.

The lights of the lower floor of the house were on, I noted absently. I walked over the stones that marked the entryway. Ashiwara had arrived sooner, and opened the door for me. I think he wanted to feel useful, instead of helpless. Some people are like that in a crisis, making work for themselves so they don't have to admit how powerless they are.

The house didn't look any different than it had before. There was nothing out of place to indicate stress or hurry, which made a lump form in the middle of my stomach. "I'm home," I called softly, but no one answered me.

I removed my shoes in the genkan, setting them neatly on the top step before entering the living area. My mother sat inside, her eyes red from tears, but otherwise still her usual serene self.

She watched as I entered, but made no move to rise. "Hello, Akira-san," she said, and she gestured for me to take a place next to her on the couch.

For as long as I can remember, I've been "Akira-san" to my mother. Ashiwara once pointed out that it wasn't usual for a child to be addressed so formally by his parent, but I had replied that it was just my family. Formality ran deep in us, and we were not demonstrative. It was good at that moment, because I could cling to the manners that I had been reared with.

"How are you, Mother?" I asked politely.

She didn't bother to force a smile. "Akira-san, I assume Ashiwara-san told you what happened. There is much to be done."

"He didn't tell me," Ogata said, cutting into the conversation. He leaned against the door's frame, his arms crossed in front of himself. Ashiwara stood next to him, shifting back and forth on his feet awkwardly. "What happened to sensei?"

For once I was grateful for his blunt manner. He was as good as any of my father's students at obeying the courtesies of a Go professional, but he had a way of cutting through the trivial matters. I wished I dared speak like him, but father's training was ingrained in me.

My mother showed her first outward sign of emotion. Her eyes lowered to her lap, and I noticed her hands had been clenched into fists. "He's recently started to take naps after lunch. I didn't think anything of it when he didn't wake up on time. It wasn't until he was an hour past due that I went to check on him..." She trailed off. "It looks like he had a heart attack while he was sleeping. The doctors say he never felt a thing."

I stared down at my hands. Now that I was hearing it directly from my mother, I could not deny the truth. "Why didn't you call me?" I asked. I wanted to know why she had contacted Ashiwara, rather than me.

"Your father wouldn't have wanted to interfere with your game," my mother told me. Her eyes were free of tears, but her voice trembled. "He was so proud of what you were doing. I know – I know that he would have wanted you to keep playing."

I opened my mouth to object, but I couldn't form the words. I could not blame my mother for thinking like that, since she was correct about my father's preferences. After his first heart attack, he'd been annoyed at himself that his condition had interfered with my much-anticipated game with Shindou. If I had lost the Meijin match due to his death, he would have come back to haunt me.

Not that it was a comfort. My victory, which I had been so excited about an hour before, seemed hollow. I could not share it with him. He was – had been – my greatest supporter and greatest inspiration.

My mind was dancing with images of my father, and the time we had – and hadn't – spent together. I had known my father hadn't been feeling well, but I hadn't realized it was so serious. I hadn't seen him in two days, and had to struggle to remember what his final words to me had been.

The conversation was continuing without me. Ogata asked where my father's body was, and mother replied that the emergency crews had taken him to the morgue. Arrangements had been previously made with a funeral home, but there were still many unanswered questions. Notifying friends and family, writing the death notice, contacting my father's favorite temple and arranging the memorial, finding a picture of him, dealing with the media...

"I'll start making arrangements. There is a lot to be done," I said, echoing my mother's words. My mother nodded, and I rose to my feet, pulling out my cell phone in preparation of a night of calling.

Then I started to arrange my father's funeral.

* * *

I didn't get to bed until late that night – perhaps it would be better to say early the next morning. There were truly an unbelievable amount of details that needed to be attended to. For every answer I decided, another ten questions popped up, and not everyone was available late Thursday night. Many of my messages were left on answering machines. 

I did manage to get hold of the temple, which would take care of Father's body until the wake. They told me to come first thing in the morning to take care of the details.

Finally Ogata ordered me to bed, pointing out I would be next to useless if I didn't have any rest. He was gentler than usual, adding that he planned to stay in the guest room so he could be available to help in the morning. I was grateful, because I had never undertaken such arrangements before and needed guidance. Even though I had just taken a title from Ogata he cherished, I trusted him.

I still maintained the bedroom of my youth, although I had moved out after turning twenty. My apartment was the place I stayed, but it had never become home. I still spent a day or two a month at my parents' home, usually after lingering too long in post game discussions with my father. That would not be happening anymore, I forced myself to admit. I would never sit over a goban with my father again.

I wondered why I was not crying at that realization.

I didn't bother to change, although I kept clothes there. Instead, I removed my jacket, socks, belt and tie, undid the topmost buttons on my shirt, went to the bathroom to wash my face, and retrieve a certain bottle. Since I suffered from irregular bouts of insomnia, my doctor had given me a prescription to help on sleepless nights.

I popped a pill, and settled under my blankets, hoping for a dreamless sleep. I didn't get it, but I wasn't surprised. It was natural for me to dream of my father.

There's times when you realize you are dreaming, but are unable – and unwilling – to wake up. The dream was as real to me as reality itself, although the back of my mind was detached, recognizing that I was asleep.

I was walking through my parents' house, feeling divorced from my surroundings. My mother was not present, I knew instinctively, but that didn't feel strange. The person I was looking for was seated in the Go room.

The door was half-closed, and I had to push it open. My father was in _seiza,_ staring at the board in front of him. It was – had been – his habit to contemplate past games in such a fashion, and was so natural that I found nothing wrong with it.

"Hello, father," I said.

He nodded, indicating that I was to come in. There were times when he preferred to be alone in his meditations, so we'd learned to communicate that. I entered the room, then shut the door behind me.

He was not the man he'd been when he'd died – instead, he wore the form of the strong Meijin I remembered from my youth, the man who had yet to be afflicted with illness, in the prime of his career. There was a game set out on the board in front of him; it was not one that we had played together, but I recognized it instantly.

It was the game my father had played against Tsuda-meijin to secure his title. I had replayed the game over and over throughout my childhood, admiring the depth of thinking my father had reached to overcome a man who had successfully defended the Meijin title for six years.

"How was your day, Akira?" Father asked.

"Not good. You died today," I replied calmly, sinking into my customary position on the pillow across from him. It should have seemed like a ridiculous thing to say, but it seemed right. Dreams are like that.

"All men must pass," he said. His expression remained impassive.

"I never really believed you would."

"I was mortal, just like anyone," he said. "This was one of the best games I ever played."

"But not the best."

"No, that was the game I played against that person," Father replied. "I thought I saw the shadow of the Hand of God in him."

"I always saw that in you," I replied.

He shook his head. "You need to look to the future of Go, rather than the past. The Hand of God has yet to be played."

"I know." We had discussed it many times, theorizing what it would be like to play that ultimate move. "It's weird to be talking about this with you since you died today."

"Do you think death would stop me from seeking the Hand of God?" he asked, and I detected a faint smile on his lips. He was teasing me in his subtle fashion.

"No." I paused, then asked the question I needed an answer to. "Did it hurt, dying?"

For the first time, I had his entire attention. The Go game sat forgotten between us. "I didn't realize I was dying," he said. "When a man has to die, there's no better way than in his sleep."

"I wish you weren't dead."

"I wish I hadn't left you without saying goodbye," Father said. "Are you doing okay, Akira?"

"I don't know how I feel," I confessed. "I don't feel devastated. I'm not upset. I'm sorry," I told him, because he deserved better.

"It's probably shock," he told me. "You'll get over it. You'll miss me every day for the rest of your life. I missed my father like that."

I had been a late-life baby for my father. My father had been an only child, and his parents died before I was born. He talked about his parents rarely, and I wish I had known them because they sounded like wonderful people. If I ever had children – which was looking more and more unlikely as time passed – they would never know my father.

"I'm sure I will," I said.

"It's the way it's supposed to be. There is no father who does not want his son to miss him. Fathers may prepare their children for life, but they never want to stop being a part of it."

I nodded. There was nothing more to say, so I turned my head to the game. "Why did you decide to play _tenuki_ there?" I asked. "I've always wondered how hard it was to ignore the battle for the upper right corner..."

My father gave me a smile, then set about explaining his reasoning. It was just like so many times before, and it didn't matter to me that he was dead, and I was just dreaming.


	2. Chapter 2

** The Ghost Belonged to Me**

_by aishuu_

Pairing: Akira/Hikaru, eventually

* * *

_Part Two:_

The next couple of days were a flurry of activity, and I wasn't left alone long enough to think, let alone grieve. Laying a man of my father's stature to rest was a complicated procedure, since the nation mourned his death. Touya Kouyo had been a great man, and his loss was one shared beyond just those he had known. The government went so far as to order that flags be flown throughout the nation at half mast in his honor.

The Institute was discussing options for creating a small shrine to my father. Other tributes, some grandiose others practical, were being bandied about, and I was both touched and irritated. They were sincere in their desire to honor my father, but I knew that within weeks politics would get involved. I had seen enough of the Institute's internal procedures to realize that some people would try to advance their own agendas. I knew I'd have to keep an eye on that.

A Japanese burial, I'm told, is the most complicated and expensive in the world. It's a relief to know that, since arranging my father's seemed like a Hydra, always ready to sprout a new head no matter how many aspects I made decisions on.

There were two parts to the memorial: a wake and a funeral. The details to arrange each were staggering. Some of them were emotionally wearing, like selecting funeral clothes and items to place in the casket. Others were irritating, like finding gifts to give those that attended the wake. The hardest was purchasing the _kaimyo_ name, the name the priests gave to the dead. It was very expensive, but my father had more than earned the prestige.

By necessity, we arranged for a closed wake, with only those who were closest to my father invited - my mother's family, a couple of my father's closest friends and students, and a couple of those he'd held in esteem.

I dressed in black, with my hair pulled back into a low ponytail so it wouldn't hide my face. I wasn't doing this for me – this was the last gesture of respect I could offer my father. I would do my duty, loathe about it though I was.

I sat beside my mother in the front row, the casket that held my father close enough to touch, should I choose to reach out a hand. I couldn't move, though. Everything was too surreal. I did not want to see his dead body, because if I did, that would be the image that would haunt me. I wanted to remember him as he'd been in life.

The priest read the _sutra_, and we offered incense as was proper. The ceremony was relatively short, a great contrast to the actual funeral, which we held later that day. That was not traditional, but rules needed to be bent. There were plenty of people who wanted to offer their condolences. The chairs were removed to provide more space, and the door of the temple was opened. The crowd poured in, and we started the actual funeral.

It seemed like the entire Go world had turned out for the occasion. There were father's friends, rivals, officials, employees, students, some of his fans and members of the press. I tactfully ignored the click of the camera, knowing that the media was preserving the moment for posterity – or at least the next issue of Weekly Go. It struck me that there was no one in attendance who wasn't involved with Go, with the exception of my mother's family.

My mother and I had chosen a formal portrait of my father to be displayed, an image taken right after he'd secured his fifth title. He looked stern, but that was the way the world had known him. Few had seen his gentler side, the one that delighted in sneaking his son out for ice cream breaks as a child, and had exhibited endless patience as he taught me how to hold a Go stone. As I grew, he became more guarded, but I always recognized how deep his love for me ran.

I don't remember much of the funeral. People rose to speak about my father, about the great man he'd been and his legacy, but the words seemed unimportant to me. Words were not actions, and words were sometimes just lip service. Father would have been annoyed at the fuss, I thought. He didn't like being a spectacle any more than I did.

It was only because I loved and respected Father so much that I didn't make an excuse to leave. I had never been comfortable in the spotlight, although my talents tended to force me into it. Now I was starring in a role I never wanted: the heir to the late Touya Kouyo.

There were so many mourners in attendance that the faces blurred together. I only noticed the presence of two people, though. My mother – who held only my hand tightly enough to bruise – and Shindou Hikaru, who stood in the back, waiting with uncharacteristic patience as I accepted the line of mourners who offered their condolences. I always seemed to know when Shindou was around; it was like having static electricity run over my skin.

Shindou and I had never had an idle relationship – we were either best friends and rivals, or enemies that couldn't stand the sight of each other. For us, there was no in between. We were in one of our "off again" phases. We hadn't met at the salon in over two months, and we weren't sharing lunch on game days.

My anger at him this time – over a rather thoughtless remark about Ashiwara, if I recalled correctly – wasn't deep enough for me to maintain. At that moment I was just tired, wishing the funeral was over and I could go home. It wasn't until the crowd started to thin that Shindou stepped forward. He said something polite to my mother, then came to stand before me.

Shindou was dressed in a black suit that didn't suit him, since he hated dressing up. He seemed faded to me, not as vibrant than the man I usually called my rival. The blond of his hair seemed less golden than usual, and the usual vividness of his expression was subdued by sorrow. Shindou had long been one of the people who was "larger than life" to me, but at that moment, he just looked like a tired, ordinary man.

"I'm sorry about your father," Shindou told me. Even his voice sounded muted.

I nodded politely to accept his condolences, but could think of nothing else to say. I started to turn away, but he caught the sleeve of my jacket.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Usually when people make that offer, they were offering expected platitudes, but Shindou never said anything without backing it up. Shindou really wanted to know if he could help. That offer brought me closer to tears than anything else, but before I could ask him anything, my restraint exercised itself. My father would not want me to show any weakness. A good Go player always hid his emotions, lest they be used against him.

"No, Shindou. There's nothing anyone can do," I told him.

He shuffled on his feet, and for a moment it was like being thrown back in time. He looked like a kid again, instead of the current Honinbou and Gosei and my chief rival.

"Sometimes it's better not to grieve alone. If you want – well, you have my cell number and we can do something. Doesn't have to involve Go, either. So... call if you need anything." Shindou's words were awkward, and he let my jacket go, staring at my face intently.

I didn't know how to reply that, anymore than Shindou knew how to offer comfort for the loss of my father. Whatever response I might have made was cut off as he stepped away, leaving me to face the rest of the mourners alone. A part of me wanted to call out and ask him to remain, but I could not show such weakness.

I turned away from him, and toward the rest of the mourners. I wouldn't find rest for many hours.

* * *

The day seemed to drag on forever, but finally it ended. The cremation would take place tomorrow, but that was something only my mother and I needed to attend. After that, we'd be done mourning for a while. 

My mother went to bed as soon as we arrived home, though she slept in the guest room. She hadn't stayed in the room she had shared with my father since he died; I doubted she ever would again.

I was tired, both emotionally and physically, but I didn't want to go to bed. I hadn't touched a goban since the Meijin Tournament, and I felt like something was missing. I needed to play; it was the best tribute to my father's memory. His life had been Go, and it was due to him that I possessed my skills.

I went to the Go room, the place where I'd spent most of my childhood, studying at my father's side. Without giving it much thought, I sat down at the room's main practice goban – which bore scratches from many matches and study sessions – and idly became to place stones.

I wasn't sure what game I was recreating until I laid the first ten hands. It had always been one of my favorites to study, and didn't require much thought to lay. I must have fallen asleep, for when I looked up, my father was there. His face was stern as he studied the game I was recreating.

It was strange; I knew he was dead, yet I was not surprised or upset to see him. It didn't feel like the first dream; instead, it seemed natural, like he was supposed to be there. I could have been having a complete mental breakdown, but that didn't cause me to panic. It was comforting to be around him.

I offered him greeting and asked no questions. I treated his presence like it was nothing out of the ordinary, and he didn't react. I could feel his attention on my hands as I finished replaying the game, as I had done for him so many times before. When I placed the last stone – a decisive move that had forced me to resign – I lifted my head and met his eyes, waiting for what he would say.

"Why are you replaying this game, Akira?" he asked.

"Don't you remember it? It was the first game I played white against you." It was the first game we'd ever played without a handicap.

"I do," he said. "I remember all of our games."

"So do I," I told him. Though I had played thousands of games over my career, I remembered almost all of them with complete clarity. It's one of the reasons I was a go prodigy in my youth, and why I had achieved titles so young.

"Why are you replaying this game, Akira?" he asked again.

"Because it's the best game I ever played against you," I replied. "It's the first time you acknowledged me as a competitive player, not just your son."

"Do you regret being my child?" The statement was carefully neutral, and I could see he wanted

"Never," I answered fiercely.

"I never regretted having you," he told me.

The dream was compellingly honest, and I found myself admitting something I'd feared deep inside. "I wondered, sometimes," I answered.  
"Why? Didn't you know I loved you?"

"I knew." I hesitated, trying to think how to frame a reply. There had been times I'd thought he saw his paternal duties as a barrier for the pursuit of the Hand of God. There were times I felt like I was an obstacle for him. "I just wondered if you loved Go more."

"Having you made my love for Go grow deeper, that it true. I loved that you could share my passion with me."

"Would you have loved me, even if I hadn't played?"

"Every parents loves their child beyond the meaning of words, Akira," he said. "The concept of 'more' or 'less' doesn't really apply. I loved you because you were mine, and because you became a man I could take pride in." He paused, looking at the board. He had never been good at speaking about his emotions, and was embarrassed. "Did you learn anything by replaying this game?" he asked.

"Yes, I always do," I assured him. I didn't add that what I had gained hadn't been about Go – or at least, not directly about Go.

I woke the next morning with my face leaning against the goban. My cheeks bore impression marks from Go stones for a good two hours. Luckily there were gone by the time my mother and I had to go to the crematorium.

* * *

A week after my father died, my mother asked to speak to me. 

I was still living with her, so the formality of the request struck me as odd. I had only returned to my apartment once for more clothes, and I wondered what she could want. It was possible she was going to hint she wanted me to move out again, but more likely that she wanted to make my residency permanent. The house was really too big for one person.

The Go Institute had offered me a month of compassionate leave, but I only took a week. Since we had finished with the formalities involved in the memorial, I had returned to work. I had spent the morning tutoring students, and the afternoon I'd spent with Ichikawa, going over the details of the Go parlor. My father hadn't taken an active role in it, leaving the details to his employees. I planned to do the same, since Ichikawa kept a tight ship.

I returned later that evening, but before the sun had set. I could smell the scent of my mother's cooking, and abruptly I realized I was hungry. I'd never been good about eating regular meals, but since my father's death, I'd gotten worse. My clothes were a bit looser, and I mentally resolved to keep better track if I'd eaten or not. I couldn't afford to lose weight.

We sat down to dinner just past seven. The meal consisted of rice and stew, which I ate without tasting. My mother picked at her food before finally setting down her chopsticks and abandoning the pretense.

"Akira-san, I wanted to know if you would like the house," she said.

I blinked. My father's will had left the home to her, and the business to me. "Are you asking me to move back in?"

"No." She lowered her head, exhaling heavily. "I'm going to be moving to Hachinohe to live with your Aunt Tomoe."

I blinked slowly, trying to process what she was telling me. "What?" It wasn't a particularly brilliant answer.

She looked up, and I saw the quiet sorrow that marked her face. "I don't want to be alone, and since Tomoe never married, it seems like a practical solution."

"I'll move back in with you," I offered quickly. "I'll get rid of the apartment."

My mother shook her head, denying my offer. "You don't really want to have an old lady hanging around, Akira-san," she said.

"I'd like to have you around," I protested, speaking the truth. I wanted to have someone else to focus on so I didn't have to dwell on the loss of my father. I still felt numb to it, and I felt badly about that. If I could have someone else to care about, maybe I'd start to feel like myself again.

Her smile was tempered by her sad eyes. "You don't need me," she murmured, and there was no rancor in her voice. "You have your Go, the same way your father did, and that's all the company you need."

I felt my face drain of blood. Was I really such a cold person that my own mother didn't understand how much I cared for her? I wondered. "Mother-" I started to protest.

"Please let me know if you would like the house. I would like you to have it," she said. She reached across the table, and I felt the touch of her hands on mine. I couldn't remember the last time someone had touched me affectionately. "I need to leave, Akira-san. There's nothing for me now that your father has passed."

I nodded, and then accepted the house. Inside I felt the numbness expand.


	3. Chapter 3

** The Ghost Belonged to Me**

_by aishuu_

Notes: Credit to svzinsanity for helping me iron this out.

* * *

_Part Three:_

I spent that night in the Go room, studying kifu of games of Kurata Atsushi 8-dan had played recently. In less than two months, I would have to defend the Kisei title from him. I knew he was hungry for the win, and I needed to play my best, which meant lots of preparation for the match. I studied until my vision started to blur and finally I fell asleep.

"How are you doing, Akira?" Father asked. He sat across the goban, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He was looking directly at me, the way he did when he wanted a reply immediately.

I stared at the goban, which was half-full from the game I'd been recreating. I couldn't bear to look at him, so I started to lay the rest of the stones. "Not well. Was I a bad son?" I asked.

"You were my pride," Father said. "What would make you think you were a bad son?"

"Mother's leaving. She said that with you gone, there's nothing left for her," I replied. Three more hands, removing a stone which was captured by white, securing the lower left side...

"There's not much left for a parent after a child grows up. A good parent learns to let their children live on their own," Father replied. "We let you go when you moved out."

"I wanted to take care of her for you," I said, confessing what was really bothering me. I looked up, meeting his eyes squarely.

My father was good about reading expressions, and he sighed, shaking his head. "I think you're doing her a disservice. Your mother is a strong woman, and still young. She deserves a chance to find her own life, and maybe even someone else to love her."

"You wouldn't be upset?" For my entire life, my father and mother had been an institution, solid against the divorces that many of my friends' parents indulged in. I had never really given much thought to their relationship, but the idea that he wanted her to move on was upsetting.

"No. That would be selfish of me. Love isn't something that fades. Akiko will always love me, but there is room in the heart to love more than one person in a lifetime," Father replied. "I love her enough to wish her happiness."

Black played a daring move, taking a decisive chance, but white found the counter. There were another ten moves left to the game, as black thrashed in its death throws, but the victory had been decided.

"Why can't she find it here?" I asked. "I don't... I don't want to be left alone."

"You will always have your Go. It is my legacy to you," Father answered. "Through it, you will never be alone. You will meet the people who will fill out your life, if you remain open to the possibilities." He seemed to be hinting at something, but my father had a way of being obscure. I needed to be able to read beneath his words, but I couldn't. I was just too tired.

"I see," I said neutrally. I wanted to argue about how no one would ever take his place, but that would not go over well. Instead, I played white's final move, removing a stone that had been captured. I drew my hand back, casually dropping the slate stone in the go ke with the smooth movement.

Father looked with interest at the board. "This is one of Kurata-kun's games, isn't it? Playing... young Waya?"

"Yes," I said. "Waya's improving, but it'll be a while before he's a serious threat to the top players." He'd never defeated me, which tended to make me a bit smug. I wasn't fond of him, since he'd taken a dislike for me early in our careers and wasn't afraid of griping about me. Shindou claimed he was a cool guy, but Shindou was better about forming friendships than I ever could hope to be.

"I wouldn't underestimate him," Father cautioned. "Many Go players don't come into their full strength until their thirties."

"I guess I'm just an exception, aren't I?" I asked, unsure if I was being sarcastic or bitter.

"No. You aren't." His words, spoken in a staccato tone, made me jerk my head up to stare at his face. A smile lingered around his mouth. "For you, the best is yet to come."

* * *

I accepted the house from my mother the next day, although I asked that she decorate my old room to her liking. It would be there to serve as her place when she came to visit, and I hinted I hoped she would. 

She had smiled at me, and simply murmured "thank you." I understood that her gratitude extended beyond the dedicated room. She was relieved I hadn't decided to make a fuss about her leaving.

It was strange for me to move into the bedroom that had been my parents', but it was the largest and it made sense. The house was mine, and leaving the space unused wasn't practical. I had rarely been inside, since the territory had been theirs. That meant I had few associations of my father in it.

Life did go on, but I was in a curious state of suspension. I went to my games and played, but rarely did I feel the inspiration to play the truly aggressive moves that had been one of my most famous characteristics. My play was still powerful, but uninspired. I was in limbo, and it seemed that was how I would continue. I knew that I wasn't playing up to my standards, but I didn't have the fire anymore to want to push myself.

I was self-aware enough to realize I was probably clinically depressed – but I didn't care.

I did not take Shindou's offer up. A couple of times he hinted that he'd be happy to talk, whether about my father, or Go, or just life in general, but I blew him off. We didn't resume the lunches that were our tradition when we were on good terms, but neither did we ignore each other entirely. It was a strange place for our relationship, but I was unable to work up the energy to explore what it meant.

Once, back when we were teenagers, Shindou had tentatively broached the idea of exploring what existed between us, but I had shot him down before he'd even gotten the question out. It wasn't that I wasn't interested in him physically – I was. Throughout my teens, I had always felt a frisson of awareness whenever we accidentally touched. I was more attracted to him than anyone I had ever met.

But he was my rival, and I would not let us be more. I did not want him to rule every aspect of my life. I knew if I let him in the last door of my life, I would never be able to think about anything else. So I had declined, citing my reasoning.

Sometimes I wondered if I had made a mistake. He had waved my rejection off like it had been a joke, but I knew my coarseness had hurt him. I was very tempted to throw caution to the wind, especially now, and lose myself in him. I wanted the fire and passion that was Shindou to burn away any vestige of pain.

I was too strong to give into the temptation. Consoling myself by turning to another would do no good in the long run. It would be best for me to come to terms with the loss of my father, and the disappearance of my mother from my life. Time means change, after all.

I found myself caring less about the little things. I couldn't get worked up into excitement about a Go discussion, and I found the concerns of my students petty in the scheme of things. Gradually I began to accept the distance I was acquiring from those around me. I did not try to continue the study group that my father had led for decades, although it was my right. The people I had grown up playing started to visit less, and Ogata started to hold meetings at the Institute for them. I was invited, but after turning them down for a month, the invitations stopped coming.

The only thing that felt real to me didn't exist. At night I would dream of my father, recreating games I had played. I would lay the stones and he would comment on my recent games, pointing out insights that even I, a three-title champion, hadn't seen. A couple of years ago, I had started to wonder if I was approaching the pinnacle of my skill, but those discussions with my father convinced me I still had a long ways to go.

My father had been a quiet man, and even in death, he didn't waste words. I felt like he was trying to tell me something important, but I couldn't read deeply enough to understand. Go analogies sometimes get rather cheesy and trite when talking about life, but it was the way I had been taught to think.

My denseness would have been frustrating in most cases, but I needed those dreams. If I figured out what he was trying to tell me, I might never see him again. The thought of losing my final connection to my father terrified me.

* * *

Three months after Father's death, I lost the Kisei title. It was the first title I had claimed, back when I was seventeen, and one I had defended for over a decade. It should have bothered me to lose it to Kurata, but it did not. Instead I felt overwhelmed by a sense of the inevitable; all things must pass, everything in life is transitory. 

I didn't play poorly, but Kurata went above me. I could feel his desire for victory in every hand he played, and my own resolve to win failed. I did manage to take him through all seven games, alternating wins, but on the last game he forced me to resign halfway through.

After the final match, Kurata was not his usual self. He didn't bother to gloat, but instead looked at me with something resembling pity, combined with disappointment. He made no offer to give me his autograph, and said nothing smug.

Instead he rubbed his brow, where a line of wrinkles were starting to form, and I realized abruptly that he was over forty. I had always considered Kurata one of the "young" pros, but suddenly that didn't seem the case. While I hadn't been paying attention, he had gotten old.

"Congratulations, Kurata-Kisei," I murmured, bowing my head in acknowledgment of his status. He'd been hunting a title for over a decade, always falling short. He had to be thrilled to finally claim one.

"I didn't want to win like this," he told me. "I don't want a title I didn't earn, Touya-Meijin."

I had nothing to say to that. I rose to my feet and left the room, rudely ignoring the post game discussion. I needed to find some space, somewhere I could find air to breathe. I was feeling claustrophobic in that room, and I didn't want to deal with the press. Iijima could call me later – he had my cell number – if he needed a quote.

I went out, but instead of taking the the elevator to the lobby and leaving, I climbed the stairs to the roof. It was my favorite place to relax since not many pros went there, especially during the colder months of the year. I should have grabbed my jacket, because although it was March, winter lingered in the air.

Sunset was still an hour off, but the sky was dark from the overhanging clouds. I wrapped my arms around my body in a frail attempt to keep warm as I stepped toward the fence. I wondered what I could tell my father that night when he asked about the game. I hoped he wouldn't be too disappointed in me.

"Just because you lost a title isn't any reason to throw yourself off the roof," an unexpected voice said from behind me. "There's always a chance to win it back."

I started, swinging around to catch sight of the intruder. Shindou Hikaru stood leaning against the wall. I had walked within a foot of him, so distracted by my thoughts that I hadn't noted his presence.

"What are you doing here?" I asked.

"I know you," Shindou said, shrugging. He wore a long black jacket that went to his calves, and he looked pretty warm. "Whenever you lose, you want to find a place to be by yourself for a while, and this is one of the only places no one would think to follow you."

"You always go out and eat," I murmured. "Ramen, preferably beef."

Shindou chuckled, although it didn't sound sincere. "We've known each other for fifteen years," Shindou replied. "I think I know you better than I know anyone else."

"Do you," I murmured, although it wasn't a question. "Fifteen years, eh?"

"Seems short, doesn't it?"

"I was thinking it was an eternity," I replied.

"Is that supposed to be an insult? Because if it is, it's pretty lame," Shindou said.

"It's just a statement of fact," I replied. It was the truth; I could barely remember how life had been before Shindou. The only other person who had such prominence in my mind was my father.

"I see." He was quiet for a long moment. "Aren't you cold?"

"I like this weather," I told him. I could feel the goosebumps on my arms, but at least I was feeling something. In another couple of minutes, my skin would go numb. That would be pleasant, too, I thought.

"I see," he said again. "Touya, I was watching the game in the observation room."

"I'm not surprised," I answered. I waited for him to release his condemnation, knowing I'd earned it. Losing the title which had defined me for so long definitely deserved his ire.

"Touya, are you okay?" he asked.

It wasn't the question I was expecting. "I'll be okay," I assured him. "It's not the first time I've lost a game, Shindou."

His eyes narrowed and he closed the ten feet between us. My shoulders went rigid as he invaded my space. "Touya, that's not what I mean. Touya, are you doing okay? You weren't playing with your heart – your game was the most mechanical piece of crap I've seen except from that computer simulator Ogata's trying to get to work."

The insult was obvious. Ogata had been involved in the development of a Go playing computer for the last ten years, and the results had been less than encouraging. While it could challenge some amateurs, all the go professionals who'd played it had defeated it easily. There's something to be said about the power of human instinct.

"I see," I replied. In the past, Shindou's comment would have infuriated me, but I couldn't work up the anger. I was resigned, as surely as I had resigned the game to Kurata an hour before. Maybe I lost more than just my title in that match.

"Touya?" he reached out, clutching me by the shoulder. "Touya, this isn't like you. I'm worried, and I want to help."

I stepped back from him, breaking his hold on me. "You know what you can do?" I asked him, my voice brittle even to my own ears. "Leave me alone."

I saw the fear in his eyes, and the hurt my coldness had brought to him. I forced myself to turn away, heading for the door "Touya-" he started, but I wasn't going to listen anymore. I already knew what he was going to say, and saw no point in wasting my time listening to him talk about my grief and how I was letting it affect me.

I heard Shindou calling for me to stop, but I ignored him as I went back inside. The sound of the latch as it clicked shut echoed ominously through my mind, but I didn't turn back.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Ghost Belonged to Me**

by aishuu

* * *

_Part Four:_

I went home and made myself dinner, even though I wasn't hungry. I have no appetite when I'm upset, but my mother – and Shindou – had drilled about the necessity of eating regularly. The ramen was tasteless, but it didn't waste much time in preparation. I still ended up throwing more than half of it away.

After turning off my cellphone and unplugging the land line, I went to bed early. Thankfully I was so emotionally exhausted that I couldn't keep myself up all night, replaying the loss in my head. The game had not been up to my standards, and I had no one to blame but myself.

I spent the first thirty minutes staring at the ceiling, my mind racing through the day's events. The loss, Kurata's unexpected words, my conversation with Shindou. It was one of those days I wished had never happened – nothing had gone right. I don't know why I blew Shindou off like that, but it was what I regretted most. I could not apologize, though, because I could not admit the real reason I did not want to be around him.

I considered taking a sleeping pill, but I didn't want to get dependent on them. Besides, I had nothing scheduled for the next day – I followed my father's example and took the day off after title matches. Usually it was time to reflect, but right now I wasn't so sure that was a good idea. I have a tendency to broad myself into deep depressions.

There's a point between sleep and waking that goes unnoticed by the mind, and luckily I fell right past it after about an hour. I turned my head, and my father was sitting beside the bed. I sat up slowly, pushing my covers back.

"Hello, Akira," he said. His face was gently concerned. "Are you alright?"

I hadn't been alright since he died, I almost said, but stopped myself. Lashing out would do no good. I could not blame my poor performance on anyone except myself. "I will be," I told him. "I just didn't play my best today."

He was quiet for a long moment, and I waited for whatever he was going to say. He'd never yelled at me before about playing poorly, but the quiet disappointment he never voiced aloud was just as jarring to me. "Show me the game," my father demanded.

I flushed with embarrassment. I was not proud of how I played against Kurata. "It wasn't one of my best," I hedged.

"Akira," he said, and just by saying my name I knew he wasn't going to be dissuaded. "We are not judged just by the best games we play. The ones we lose are just as important to our development, maybe even more so."

I nodded and rose to my feet, following him to the go room. I couldn't hear the sound of his footsteps, although mine echoed quite loudly in the dark house. He stopped at the door, and I slid it back so he could precede me. After clicking the light on, I went to sit down at the goban that maintained pride of place in the center of the room. The board was scarred by frequent games, but it was also comfortable in its familiarity.

Father knelt opposite me, as he had so frequently while he had lived. His face was neutral, and I knew without being told that he was waiting for me to keep my word. I reached into the go ke and starting to lay the hands out, my father quietly observing as I went. He offered no interruptions, no comments, leaving me to the quiet of my own thoughts.

Laying out the game was like reliving it, and I could see my distraction as I proceeded. I hadn't played well because I hadn't been truly interested in the game. Surely that was what Kurata had noticed, along with Shindou. Probably ever professional would be able to recognize that.

Each move confessed my sins even farther, and it would be ridiculous to expect my father to miss the obvious flaw in my game. He had been the Meijin, after all. Finally the finished game was laid before us, and my weaknesses were laid bare as well.

My father did not move, instead fastening his attention to the board. I wished I could read past the careful neutrality on his features. "What do you think?" I asked, unable to stand the waiting. It would be best to get this over with.

"It lacks your usual skill," he said, as tactful as ever. "Why didn't you want me to see?"

"Because it's a game not worthy of the Touya name," I replied. I tugged on my sleeves, for lack of anything better to do.

I waited, expecting him to chide me and half-hoping he would. Instead he unfolded his hands and stood up, taking a couple steps away from the board. I watched him from my seated position, feeling my stomach drop into my feet. He was really, really upset.

He stared out of the window, his back to me. I sat in silence, knowing I deserved whatever recriminations he chose to rain down on my head. He was silent for a long moment, before finally asking me a question which went straight to the heart of my troubles. "Do you want to play Go still?"

I hadn't wanted to play in a while, I thought. It wasn't until now, though, that I could bring myself to acknowledge that. I didn't want to tell him, but there was no other choice. "No. I don't," I told my father, one of the greatest Go players ever, answering him as honestly as he deserved.

"Then don't," he replied without hesitation. "It's not uncommon for a professional to take a break from his career."

I stared at him, wondering if I could actually just _stop_ playing. I was a _go player._ My very identity was based upon the game. And now I knew I was dreaming, because my father would never have encouraged me _not to play._

"Father!" I exclaimed, scandalized.

"If you do not put your heart into the game, there is no point in playing," Father said. He rose to his feet, turning his back to me. "There comes a time in many professionals' careers that they need to step back an evaluate the path they're on."

"You never needed to," I replied.

"I wasn't thirteen when I became a professional either, Akira," he said. His smile was gentler than I deserved. "My parents made me wait until I finished middle school before taking the pro exams. Sometimes I wish I'd encouraged you to do the same."

That idea horrified me. My father hadn't been satisfied with what I had become; maybe I had disappointed him in more ways than I knew. "I'm sorry," I apologized, and then rushed out another apology I had always wanted to voice. "Sometimes I wonder if you would have achieved greater heights if you hadn't had children. You spent so much time teaching me, time that took you away from your studies."

"It was because of you that I reached those heights," he said. "Your mother and I wanted children, but Akiko-san had difficulties conceiving. You were my pride," and the fierceness of his eyes was as intense as it had even been while we played, "but I wondered, sometimes, if you played because you didn't know anything else. Sometimes I felt like I'd robbed you of your childhood."

"Never!" I said roughly. "I played because I loved Go."

Some of the tension I hadn't realized he was carrying faded from his shoulders. "I'm glad to hear that, Akira," he replied. "And I won't be upset if you need to take some time off to consider things. Find out if this is what you want to do with your life, or if you're only doing it because it's expected. If you decide you still want to play, Go will be there when you get back."

I nodded, seeing his point. Still, a part of me wondered – while the game would still be there, Shindou wouldn't wait for me.

* * *

When I woke up the next morning, I gave a call to the only mentor I had left: Ogata Seiji. Our relationship had become strange since we'd ended up playing against each other, but I still trusted his advice. Ogata had never done anything to hurt me. 

_Not like Shindou,_ a small voice whispered in the back of my head, one which I ruthlessly ignored. I didn't want to think about Shindou Hikaru.

The phone rang three times, but Ogata got to it before the fourth. He must have been checking his caller ID, since he addressed me first. "Akira," he said, in a decidedly neutral tone. "What do you want?"

"Can you meet me for coffee?" I asked.

We met at a coffee shop located not too far from his apartment. While I was a fervent tea drinker, Ogata would settle for nothing less than black coffee, bitter and untainted by a softening dollop of cream. I decided to indulge in a cappuccino, feeling a need for a hit of sugar and caffeine.

Ogata was starting to show signs of his years, with lines encroaching around the edge of his eyes, but that didn't keep women from glancing at him with flirtation in their lips, or the waitress from leaning over just far enough to give him a good look at her cleavage. I knew plenty of men who were jealous of the appreciation he attracted, but Ogata didn't seem to notice. He rarely noticed things outside of his own, very narrow, view of the world.

After the waitress returned with our orders, Ogata straightened his glasses and focused on me. "I saw the kifu of yesterday's game. How are you, Akira?" he asked.

Ogata was one person I could never lie to. It wasn't that I respected him more than I did anyone else – it was because he would _know_ when I was lying. He'd watched me grow up, and he noticed certain telltale signs that I wasn't being honest. I'd never gotten away with any kind of fib around him.

"I don't know," I confessed. I shifted my mug around in my hands, watching the liquid ripple. I didn't want to tell him about the dreams, or about my blow-up with Shindou. What I wanted was some hint on what to do now, some affirmation that my disinterest in playing wasn't the end of the world.

"It's hard to lose a title," Ogata said, and I knew he was speaking from experience. He'd gained and lost several titles over the last decade – most recently the Meijin title which I had claimed the night my father died.

It wasn't the title loss that was bothering me, I acknowledged to myself. There were some things that were lost forever, but Go titles weren't one of them. "If I try, I can probably win it back," I told him, shrugging a bit uncomfortably.

A man did not fight his way to the top of the Go world without picking up the ability to read his opponents. Ogata knew me well enough to sense my disquiet, the dissatisfaction that was starting to color my days. "Do you want to?" Ogata asked me.

It was an echo of the dream of the night before, but answering Ogata would make it more real. It was the question that had been plaguing me. Since my father's death, I hadn't seen much point in playing. Somewhere along the way, I had lost the love for the game that had once been the center of my universe. "I don't know," I told him honestly.

He reached into his pocket to produce a cigarette and lighter, which he lit without even letting his eyes off my face. "I didn't become a pro until I was seventeen," he said, and I blinked at the complete change in topic.

"I didn't know," I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. Ogata had been a mainstay in my life, and I had never thought to ask about his background. He was just _there_.

"My mother wouldn't let me take the pro exams until my third year in high school." I was sidetracked for a second by the memory of my father saying something similar last night, but Ogata was continuing and I had to keep my attention on him. "She didn't want me to make a career choice until then. I was extremely angry at her since I felt I was falling behind my peers, but when I look at you, I'm grateful to her," he continued. He tapped the ash off his cigarette onto the rim of the saucer that had delivered his coffee.

I flinched. "Is there something wrong with me? Was I screwed up by not having a normal school career?"

He set his elbow the the table, propping his hand up under his chin. His eyes looked predatory as they surveyed me. "Not wrong, so much as... unrealized," he said. "You never chose Go; it chose you. Sometimes I'm a bit envious of the life you had, growing up in the house of the greatest Go player in the world, but then I remember that you've never known anything else."

I was used to comments about being socially stunted, about not seeing anything but the goban directly in front of me. I had never considered it a failing, until recently. "What am I missing?"

Ogata gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. "How would I know?"

That wasn't the sage counsel I'd been hoping for. "If I... leave... what do you think would happen?"

His answer was immediate, which led me to believe he'd thought about me reacting like that. "There will be some talk in the media about you cracking, and some pros will get annoyed that you couldn't suck up your pride about losing a title. A couple of people will wonder if you're running away."

"What would you think?"

The smoke curled around his mouth as he exhaled. "Does it matter what I would think?"

Once upon a time, I would have given him an immediate "yes." Ogata was my mentor, and his good opinion of me was important. But things had changed recently, and I was coming to the conclusion that others' opinions weren't that important. Father had been the only one who I needed to be proud of me, and he was gone.

And so was my mother. One by one, I was losing the supports of my childhood, and all I could do was stand on my own.

"No," I said softly, setting my cup down, still half-full. "It matters what I think."

He nodded with apparent satisfaction. "Then do what you have to," he told me.

The next day, I submitted a request for a leave of absence to the Institute. I didn't even wait for it to be accepted before leaving the country.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Ghost Belonged to Me  
**

by aishuu

* * *

_Part Five:_

I'd never really given much thought to traveling the world. I had been outside of Japan numerous times, mainly to play in China and Korea, but I'd never done many of the more traditional tourist pursuits. I'd never been that interested. Honestly, I still wasn't interested, but it was better to be out than at home staring at a wall.

No. If I'm to be truly honest, I was running away from myself. And that same dedication to honesty compels me to admit that I didn't _care_.

I didn't pack my cellphone. I just called the neighbor who used to look after the house when all three members of my family were away, and convinced her to send her son over a couple of times a week to make sure the place hadn't been broken into and to water the plants. She agreed, but I could tell she was puzzled by my sudden departure.

Between my own career and my inheritance, I was well off enough to tour any way I wanted to. I traveled across America, stopping at the Grand Canyon and other notable sites. The country was very diverse, but none of it really struck me as a place I'd want to stay.

Then I went through Europe, visiting old cities and hitting all the tourist traps. Somewhere along the way I bought a camera, and I started to take pictures. I'd never been the one behind the camera before, and I found it fascinating. I filled up about twenty digital cards full of images, since I didn't have any place to download the pictures to and couldn't bear to delete them. It was interesting to document my own life, what I had seen and where I had been, rather than have someone else write about me. Until a couple of months ago, I would have defined my life through the recorded kifu the Institute kept.

I called my mother once a week to let her know I was still alive. I could tell she was worried, but she didn't beg me to come home or ask me what I was thinking. Instead I would ask her how she was, and she would tell me about her day, mundane things like working in the garden or catching a movie. I liked to listen to her, and I was pleased that she was continuing her life.

I never told her where I was.

It was strange to live life without Go as my focus. It was different in Europe; there were no Go columns in the paper, no salons for me to pop into. No one recognized me, although I'm sure that in Japan my unexpected absence was the fuel for much discussion.

A couple of times – okay, every day – I thought about Shindou, wondering what he was doing and exactly how pissed off at me for just bailing on my life. The childish bit of my personality thought it was just desserts. I still remembered, quite vividly, Shindou abandoning the Go world when he was fifteen. I hadn't understood why at the time, and although he'd since explained his motivations, I didn't think I'd forgiven him.

But I tried not to think of him at all. The memory of Shindou was entwined with my life as Go professional, which in turn reminded me of my father. I hadn't dreamed of him since I had left Japan, and I missed that. He had given me permission to take time off, but I wondered if he could ever approve of how I had just _run_.

While I was in Prague – or maybe it was Osijek – I forfeited my second title. I didn't even bother to face Ogata, who had won the right of challenger for the Jyuudan title. I could imagine his annoyance, but he was the one who had encouraged me to do what I needed to do. I'd wager that he didn't believe that I would take months to do it.

Ogata, much like me, didn't like having something just handed to him. A part of me was tempted to feel just a bit sorry for him, since this was the second time that "Touya-Meijin's" departure from the Go scene had given his career an unexpected boost. I did feel a bit guilty about that, since the default victory would add momentum to his critics' claims that he more lucky than skilled.

The traveling was a nice experience, but not one I enjoyed. I was at heart a homebody, and I missed being able to return to familiar surroundings to recuperate from the day's events. I was also becoming aware of my increasing loneliness, and my longing for friends.

I also missed the dreams of my father. I hadn't had one since the night I lost the Kisei title. Maybe it was become he was ashamed of me, or maybe it was because there was nothing to connect us anymore. For my entire life, we'd only ever really talked about Go. Now that I wasn't playing, there was nothing to discuss.

Though in my dreams, we'd been talking about more. It made me melancholy to think of all the discussions we should have had while he'd been alive. As real as the dreams had felt, it was likely only coming from my subconscious.

I wondered what I was running from – the memory of my father, those dreams, or Shindou. I was thinking about this as I sat in a cyber cafe just outside of Paris. I had come in to check my email, mainly to clean it out to keep it from being shut down from excessive spam. I hadn't touched it since my abrupt flight from Japan, and I had weeks to catch up on. There were requests for interviews from the media – Iijima was persistent to say the least – from students and colleagues wondering where I was, and a couple from my mother, relating the news of her life.

And then there were the 128 messages from Shindou. Somewhere along the way, he had learned to use a computer, which I considered a mixed blessing. I could tell from the subject that he started out worried and confused, and from there slowly devolved into sheer, unadulterated rage. "Call Me, you bastard" was the tag used on the most recent, sent about four hours ago.

The constant concern somehow hit me harder than it should have. For so long I'd been divorcing myself from the people who surrounded me, preferring instead to think of my own grief. But they had cared about me, too – I was still haunted by the memory of Shindou, propositioning me for a relationship I knew couldn't exist. If I had accepted, years ago, maybe I would know how I was supposed to cope with what had been happening.

Without reading any of the messages, I shut the browser down and headed back to my hotel. My body was tight from nerves as I looked up the instructions on placing an international call. It took me ten minutes to figure out how to dial out to Japan, and I glanced at my clock and realized it'd be nearly ten at night where Shindou was. But I figured he wouldn't care.

It was a number I hadn't dialed in years, even before I left. It'd been such a long time since I'd initiated contact with Shindou. We had seen each other so frequently – before my father passed away – that we didn't need to be on the phone. I've never understood the need to remain in constant touch with other people, and I wasn't one for small talk.

"Hello, Shindou," I said.

He swore at me, using words I'd never heard him say before. It made me laugh a bit hysterically inside. "Where are you, you asshole?" he demanded after letting loose expletives too vile to repeat. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"It's a midlife crisis," I said, feeling a slight smile tug at my lips. His voice sounded wonderful, no matter how pissed off at me he was. No – because of how pissed off he was. There was something about getting under his skin that I considered fair play.

"Little early for that, isn't it?"

"I've always been precocious."

"Bastard."

It felt good to be falling into the repartee, into a sense of normality. I hadn't realized how much I missed him – him, not just his Go and the games we created together. Shindou was, in spite or maybe because of everything, the best friend I would ever had.

"I'm just taking a break," I told him. "I needed some time to think."

"You're taking a break?" Shindou demanded, and I imagine the way his eyebrow twitched. "You? The boy who gets a hard-on looking at kifu?"

Shindou usually wasn't so... provocative. I felt myself flushing, annoyed that he was trying so hard to bait me. "I've been playing Go my whole life," I told him. "I think a vacation is in order."

"Akira-" and I knew he was serious since he was addressing me by my first name "-if you want to find your father again, you need to look to your Go."

Rage started to simmer within me at how well he understood my motivation. "Don't you get it? Go is just a game!" I snapped. "It's wonderful and exciting, but in the end, Go isn't alive! It's not a person, it's a _thing_!"

"It's a thing that connects us," Shindou replied. He spoke softly, with the reverent regard of a devotee who understood the truth others were still seeking. "It is how we express ourselves, how we communicate. Our Go is shaped by all the games we play, and we take a little bit of each of our opponents with us. Go is our legacy, our life."

My hand tightened on the phone, but my anger chilled as quickly as it had arisen. "If that's true..." I trailed off, trying to clarify what was bothering me, and not coming up with an agreeable answer. "Shindou, I don't know if I can keep playing."

Shindou was silent for a long moment, and I listened to the sound of his breathing. I knew Shindou wouldn't wait for me. He had his own path to walk, and even if I wasn't there, he would continue to move forward. "I don't believe you."

I shut my eyes as I tried to think of an answer. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"I'm saying I don't believe you. You can't stop playing, any more than I could. Remember when we were fifteen?"

"I remember." That had been one of the most painful periods in my life, with Shindou racking up a set of forfeitures which threatened to kill his career before it even started. I had been so upset to think that he would never play me, that I would never find the secret to his strength, that he would not be my rival. The day that he announced his return to me had been one of the best in my life.

"That's how I know you'll be back. I felt guilty for playing, especially since Sai-" his voice broke, the name still painful for him to speak. "I've lost my mentor, too, Touya. And I've learned the best way to honor his memory is to keep playing, and working toward the Hand of God."

Shindou had told me the "truth" about Sai years ago; I hadn't believed him. As I reflected, I realized that is where the permanent schism in our relationship came from. I hadn't trusted him with a bizarre truth, and he'd lost his faith in me. Without that faith, there was no way we'd ever find the hand of god together.

Now that my father was gone, I was starting to wonder if I'd been too hasty in dismissing his stories of a Heian period Go-playing ghost. I wanted to believe that my father's visits were real, and it wasn't a big leap to thinking that Shindou might have told the truth.

I must have been quiet for too long, because he cleared his throat. "You still there?"

"I'm here," I said.

"I've qualified for the Meijin challenger's slot," he told me. "If you don't get your ass back here, I'll forfeit, too."

And Shindou was stubborn enough to do so. I could just imagine the hoopla that would result if he carried through on his threat.

"Shindou-"

"The championship match start in May. You've got two weeks to get back to Japan. I'll be waiting for you then." Then he, amazingly, hung up on me.

I listened to the disconnection for a second before cradling the phone again. Shindou was offering me one more chance. I wasn't sure if I was going to take it. 


	6. Chapter 6

**The Ghost Belonged to Me**

_by aishuu_

* * *

_Part Six:_

Shindou's ultimatum was still ringing in my head as I went to bed that night. I wasn't sure if I was more angry or relieved to hear it.

Shindou had thrown a challenge in my face, and I'd never been able to resist it when he baited me. It was the main reason I hadn't gotten in touch with him since leaving Japan. I knew that since he asked, I would find it impossible not to think seriously about returning.

Traveling the world had distanced me from my issues, but none of my problems had been solved. I hadn't reconciled myself to my father's death or my mother's new life... and I still didn't have the urge to play Go. I was anchor-less, examining life through a glass pane, observing but not participating.

I still hadn't cried.

Should I go back and pretend everything was all right, pretend that I wanted the life I'd previously led? Could I be content with mediocre Go and a life without ambition?

I didn't know. But I had two weeks to choose, two weeks to make it to the Meijin Tournament and defend my last title. The title which had meant so much to me once was painful to think about, since my father had died the day I'd been crowned.

While staying in a hotel room was appealing, I knew it wouldn't be wise to allow myself that indulgence. I needed to be surrounded by crowds, by people, or else I would become lost in my own depression. Even though I had little interest in my surroundings, going through the motions was better than sinking further into apathy.

I packed up my two suitcases that afternoon and decided to head for Paris itself. The cost of signing into a decent room in an unreserved hotel at six p.m. was exorbitant, but I could visit the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe. Taking pictures would distract me from the decision I needed to make soon.

Paris was a beautiful city, and I didn't know where to start. The hotel I had randomly selected was located in the 5th arrondissement, also known as the Latin Quarter. It wasn't too close to most of the fabled tourist attractions of the city, and I was too tired to want to travel far. The hotel concierge assured me there were plenty of good cafes located within walking distance, and I couldn't go wrong by just picking one.

The crowds were a mix of businessmen and students as I walked through the streets, window shopping. There were plenty of restaurants and several niche boutiques, but I wandered past most of them, looking for a restaurant where English might be spoken. While my English was of middling level, my French skills were nonexistent.

I almost missed the small bookstore-slash-cafe that sat squished between a larger restaurant and what looked like a student housing building. The store appeared old, but what caught my eye was the signs in the window advertising the menu in several languages, including Japanese.

The doorbell rang pleasantly as I pushed it open. The cafe was small, seating less than thirty, and the scent of strong coffee filled the air. The seats were clustered around small tables, and I immediately felt nostalgic for the Go parlor where I'd spent much of my life. Although this was a different country, halfway around the world, this shop took me back to the place I had grown up.

While the place was mostly empty, several of the tables were occupied by a weird mix of people, mostly male but not entirely so. They were leaning over game boards, and the familiar _pa-chi! pachi!_ rang through my head.

These people were playing Go.

It was the last thing I expected, so far from Go's strongholds in Asia. While Go did have a worldwide following, western countries were much more interested in chess, and it was a novelty game. I wasn't sure if I believed in such a thing as fate, but it was hard to deny the odds of wandering into one of the few Go-playing businesses in Europe. For a second, I struggled to breathe, but the sound of someone speaking caught my attention.

_Bienvenue!_

I blinked as a tired-looking college student shuffled over to stand beside me, a pad in his hand.

"I don't speak French," I said in English. Then, remembering the signs which had lured me in, I asked, _"Nihongo ga dekimasu ka?"_

The server shook his head. "No. But the owner does," he replied in English. He called something over his shoulder to one of the men at the table.

A man who had been observing a game between two college-aged students lifted his head, his wild eyebrows lifting on his forehead. Seeing me, he pushed himself away from the table and came up. The server, determining his job complete, turned away before I could insist it wasn't necessary.

I was of average height for a Japanese man, but this older man was tall enough that I had to bend my neck to meet his eyes. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, and had a beak-like nose and startling pale blue eyes. He moved like a man much younger than he was, with a bounce in his step.

"Welcome, welcome," he said in Japanese, offering a slight bow to indicate respect. It wasn't a natural gesture for the man, and came off as gawky, but I appreciated the attempt. It had been too long since I'd seen the courtesy. "Are you here for Go night?" he asked.

I shook my head. "I was just looking for somewhere to eat, and I saw your signs in the window."

The man laughed, putting his hand behind his head. "Wishful thinking on my part. I was hoping since you were Japanese, you might be a player. My apologies, I shouldn't have assumed."

"I am a player," I replied, the words popping out of my mouth without thinking on it. Playing Go had been my identity for so long that I couldn't lie about it.

"Really?" The man's face shifted into an expression of delight. "Would you do me the courtesy of offering me a game? I'm looking for a new opponent, since I'm studying to enter the French Meijin Tournament."

His words were like a punch to the gut. I wasn't sure if I believed in higher powers, but the coincidence was just too ironic to dismiss out of hand. While I wanted to reject the invitation, doing so wouldn't be polite. Besides, I was still undecided about what to do about Shindou's challenge, and playing a casual game might help me make that decision. If I played poorly against this amateur, that might prove answer enough. I was looking for an excuse to avoid defending the Meijin title, the small little voice of conscience that had been quiet for far too long pointed out.

"I'll play," I agreed.

"Good! In return, I will treat you to dinner!" The man clapped his hands enthusiastically. He was very Gallic, full of sweeping gestures and wearing his expressions openly, which struck me as very exotic.

"There's no need," I demurred, but he was having none of it.

"No, no, I insist. What would you like to eat?"

I shrugged. It didn't really matter, since food hadn't been tasting like much of anything lately. "Anything's fine."

The man frowned at me, before stroking his chin. "I see," he said, a slight frown appearing before he dismissed it. He called the waiter over and had a brief conversation in French before leading me over to a table at the farthest end of the room. A couple of heads turned, but most paid attention to either their games or the books they had open in front of them. It was a sign how serious they were about their studies.

The goban looked a bit strange, sitting on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, but I didn't comment. The chairs squeaked as we pulled them out and settled ourselves in.

"What kind of handicap would you like?" he asked.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd played a handicap game, or anyone had offered one to me – no, correction. I remembered playing my father with a handicap until I'd become a professional. Since I'd entered the pro world at thirteen, everyone had been aware of my skill level and no one would have been foolish enough to underestimate, since I was Touya-Meijin's son.

The anonymity was novel, and my lips twitched in what might have been an involuntary smile. I hadn't smiled in so long I'd forgotten how to.

"There's no need. I'm good," I said.

"Have you been playing long?" he asked.

"All my life," I said, before adding, "my father taught me."

The man nodded and picked up one of the go kes. "I'm a bit envious of you Japanese, in that regard. Go wasn't brought to France until the sixties, and I didn't learn until I was in college. It's best to learn the game younger."

"Perhaps, but I've known several retired men who've picked it up fairly well," I said as I grabbed the other go ke so we could nigiri for black. I had always known learning at the feet of my father had given me an advantage, but I had never thought of my culture being another step up. Go was very Asian in nature, I knew, and part of my birth nation's heritage. If I hadn't been born in Japan, I might never have learned it. And my life would have been much poorer. It's strange how fate works out.

"Better to learn later than not at all," he said, lifting the lid and finding the white stones. He picked up a small handful and placed them on the table, to which I replied with one stone. After counting his stones, we switched go kes and started the game.

I wish I could say something profound about how touching the stones made me immediately decide I'd missed the game. But the cheap plastic stones didn't summon that kind of emotion from me. Instead, it was like picking up a book I'd set down a couple of months ago and trying to remember where I was.

The man was decent for an amateur, I recognized about ten hands in, but very conventional and would not pose a challenge. For someone at my level, the only people who were unique were complete amateurs (who had little idea of the conventions and thus could pull out some shocking, unpredictable moves), or masters of the game. His shape was solid but not inspired, and I found myself replying automatically, as though I'd been hired to play a game of shidougo. He had said he was studying for a tournament, and I had nothing riding on this. I could lose, if it helped him make himself stronger.

About halfway through the game, a plate with a sandwich was placed at my elbow, but I ignored it. I never ate when playing; it struck me as disrespectful.

My opponent's concentration on the board was laudable as I let him build a _moyo,_ only to chop it to pieces five hands in. He glanced up at me, nodding, before returning to try to recover. He still had plenty of territory, but I planned to play a thick game, fighting for every moku. I let him take me into the endgame, even though I could have roared back a couple of times after he played less-than-optimal hands.

Finally we laid the last stone, setting back from the board. My sharp eyes noted I'd lost by two moku with komi, but I obligingly pushed the stones so we could officially make the count.

"I've lost," I murmured simply, dropping a brief bow of my head. It was no pain to my ego, since I'd been the one to control the outcome of the match. I hadn't wanted to win.

The older man sat back, heaving a sigh. "Thank you for the game, young man." He ran a hand through his hair. "And I would say you only lost because you didn't care if you won. You're the finest player I've ever met."

"Thank you," I murmured. "You're the best I've played in a while." That was the truth, since I hadn't played in a while.

"Ah," the man said, but didn't add anymore. "Are you going to eat?"

I picked up the crepe which was filled with cheese and fruit. The texture wasn't exactly the same as a crepe I would have purchased in Japan, but it was closer than most of the food I'd been sampling as part of my travels. Crepes were a French invention, and the opportunity to try a genuine one was something many tourists enjoyed.

I felt his eyes on me as I ate. The food was adequate, but I didn't really taste it, instead distracted by my disappointment. I hadn't known until I'd played this game that a part of me had believed I would magically be cured of my apathy.

"Could I could persuade you to tutor me for the next week or so?" the man said after a long silence. "I'd be willing to pay."

I shook my head. "I'm just passing through."

"I figured that might be the case," he said, sighing. "I suppose I shouldn't be greedy."

"It's never greedy to want to play a good game," I said automatically, even though I knew I was lying. My father had played against Sai and hadn't been satisfied with that one golden opportunity. He'd spent his life trying to recapture that moment. Luckily, it had worked out well for him since it'd truly expanded his horizons, but it could have easily turned into a living nightmare.

The kind of nightmare I was now living, wandering without finding satisfaction in what I was doing.

"Would you be willing to play another game right now, then? Since you're leaving?"

I was still disappointed that the game hadn't fired up my own desire to play, and I opened my mouth to make a polite excuse before something in his eyes made me stop. It was a wistfulness that's hard to describe.

This man was going to be attending a competitive tournament, and he was smart enough to recognize that playing against me would help him prepare. If my lazy game had been the best he'd played in a while, I felt sorry for him.

"Sure," I said finally. "I think I can make time.

The man broke into a smile, and for a second I saw Shindou's face superimposed over his. His innocent pleasure at playing another game finally shook something loose inside me. I knew, even as we cleared the board, that I would be catching a flight back to Japan within the next couple days.

I might not have the desire to win anymore, but that didn't matter right now. I didn't need to play for myself. I would return to play for Shindou's sake, since he needed me. It might very well be our last game, but I owed it to him to face him in person.


End file.
